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While the UK are at least debating this, we in Ireland are not even thinking about it.

Back in 1974/75 I met an old German on holiday here. He asked me if I supported joining the then EEC and he took the time to explain to this Irish teenager what it was about. “We rich Germans will give you Irish money so that you can buy yourselves a Mercedes Benz,” was how he summarized it.

Our price to join though was high. We had to give away our fertile under-used fishing grounds all around the coastline to factory ships from France, Spain and Portugal. In return, our agricultural industry, (our biggest indigenous exporter), was subsidized not to produce foods. We had butter mountains and wine lakes to falsely inflate the price of produce.

Money did flow from Europe for key projects like motorways and light rail. Even then though, we had recessions in the seventies, eighties and into the nineties. But our saving grace was that we had our own currency, the Irish Punt. When times got tough we always devalued the punt and this had the duel effect that Irish citizens didn’t buy too many foreign goods but on the flip side, our exports soared because they seemed cheap and we got much needed foreign currency in return.

The switch from a trading block of sovereign nations to a United States of Europe, (the E.U.) was where it went pear-shaped. That move required a common currency and we lost our Punt. To make that move, all that was required was for our snake-oil politicians to pass it in the Dail and they had every intention of so doing. But a teacher up country took a court action against them stating that as it changed our constitution, it required a vote of the people to make the change. There were two EU treaties therefore we got to vote on, the Maastricht Treaty and the Lisbon Treaty, and we voted NO to both of them, (in case you have forgotten). Guess what? We were sent back to vote again with dire threats ringing in our ears.

That was the time I believe that we ceased to be a democracy. We became instead, a plutocracy where all of us became slaves to our political masters. The Irish electorate had spoken but were overruled by the Irish Government. Dress it up any way you like but that’s what happened. At the time of the subsequent bank crash I wrote a letter to the three main broadsheets with my theory about all of this. I had a deep suspicion about the motives of our politicians.

Sir/Madam,

In light of the actions and activities of the Government and their banking buddies, many people are calling for investigations, resignations and punishments for those responsible for the mess we find ourselves in. These calls appear to be rebuffed or just ignored by those in authority. They continue to attack the poor and the middle-classes while still looking after themselves and their friends. Short of a bloody revolution, it’s hard to see anything changing soon.

It’s also hard to understand their lack of remorse, their refusal to account for it all and take responsibility, and worst of all, to see them strut around like peacocks, bloated by their own self importance. Then I discovered what a “sociopath” is.

A sociopath will normally have a conventional appearance, so they do not stand out visually. But then the definition becomes interesting. They are glib and superficial, are manipulative and cunning, have a grandiose sense of self, are pathological liars, they lack remorse, shame and guilt and they suffer from shallow emotions. But it gets better. They are callous and lack empathy, they are irresponsible and unreliable, they lead a parasitic lifestyle, they do not perceive that there is anything wrong with them, they are secretive, paranoid and authoritarian and they have an over riding need to find victims. They have an emotional need to justify their disgraceful deeds so they actually need the victim’s affirmation, respect, gratitude and love. How sick is all that ? Does any of it ring any bells for you ? Are they alarm bells by any chance?

The first 166 names you come up with will probably be the same as mine. It would be an ironic laugh if it wasn’t for the fact that sociopathy is a mental illness that needs treatment. You would not let sociopaths take control of their own cars, much less a bank or a country. Perhaps instead of calling for convictions and imprisonment for our betters, we might show them a little sympathy and instead have them all consigned to a mental home, for their own good and ours,

John Mallon Cork.

For the benefit of foreign readers, we have 166 elected representatives in our Parliament. That letter was written over seven years ago and it is as valid today as it was then. So maybe the question should be changed from ‘Should we be in the EU’ to ‘Did sociopaths take us into it in the first place?’

And where does that leave the European Parliament as regards sociopaths?

I spoke to a man a while ago who was worried that his house was going to be repossessed by the bank. In an attempt to see a silver lining on that cloud his friend suggested that at least he wouldn’t have to worry about the property tax if it happened.

That got me thinking though. You must pay the property tax on any property you own, right? But when you take out a mortgage you do not technically own the property until the money is paid back to the bank, right? I mean look at the guy under threat of losing his if you don’t believe me. Until the day you have the deeds of the property in your hot little mitts and not a penny is owed on it, it isn’t yours. Until then, the bank retains the deeds as their own.

So who owns the place in reality and therefore who is liable for the property tax? If the bank re-possesses yer man’s house, will they, (the bank), have to pay the property tax on it until they dispose of it? By extension then, should the bank be paying your property tax until the mortgage is cleared?

Thirty years ago we had a phenomenon here in Cork when it was suggested that a statue of the 'Virgin Mary' in a grotto near Kinsale was moving. I kid you not!

Reports had people witnessing a stone alabaster statue appearing to be in motion. Now, no one suggested that she lifted her skirts and made off for a decent boozer or anything but the chanting hoards that flocked to the place to pray ran into their thousands. It made headlines all over the world at the time. Naturally the Catholic Church itself wasn't too enthusiastic about it and the senior collars in that organization were keen to play it all down. But the breast-beating rosary-bead brigade were not being put off by that. They had a real happening on their hands.

Back then, as it happens, I ran a business servicing the marine industry through the Port of Cork and had occasion to take a Dutch sea-Captain to dinner in Kinsale. On our way home, this happy bundle of a man, asked if we could swing past the moving statue to see what all the fuss was about. The grotto was on the right hand side of the road and the field on the other side was black with people. It was night time so the whole place was lit up around the statue itself by lighting that had been rigged up.

Bold as you like, I parked beside it and no-one said anything to me. The Dutchman got out to have a closer look and I joined him. Now, you can call me what you like but to me at that moment, the damned thing appeared to be moving. I swear to God! But it was on a height above us so I couldn't be absolutely sure even with 20/20 vision at the time. Then I saw that I could make my way up to it at one side so over the railings I went and climbed up until I was close enough to reach out and touch it.

Guess what? It was still moving! The motion was gentle but easily discernable. The movement was above the waist of the statue and the head looked like it was slowly nodding so I did the only thing I could think of at the time. I reached out and touched the cold stone. It felt solid and static. I watched and touched for about ten minutes before making my way back down to my dinner companion. He was giggling happily because he thought we Irish were strange and quaint anyway. When I told him what I saw, I shot down in his estimation.

But, here's the thing, what exactly does it mean? OK, so I saw something that shouldn't move sway a bit but what is that supposed to make me think. I am not what is called a good Catholic though I do try to be a good Christian. But that alone does not enlighten me one bit as to what effect this moving statue was supposed to have on me. I just wasn't moved by the experience.

As an aside, an old nun came scampering out of the field to grab my arm before I got back into the car. "You saw it, didn't you?" the sad wrinkled face asked. I shrugged and said I did and then she hit me with the bitter punchline. "Only bloody non-believers do!"

Recently some very weighty medical voices have been stridently bellowing that we Irish have a drink problem and I must say, I have to agree with them. The problem is the ridiculous price of the stuff here.

You can't get a decent bottle of plonk now for under a tenner and that, to my mind, is extortion plain and simple. An acceptable table wine should be available at three yo-yo's or less and a good Merlot, which you might roll appreciatively around the palate, should be a tenner tops. In a moldy old Arab shop in Paris last year I got a peach of a bottle of red for a single euro and the owner was delighted with the sale too.

But of course, the high and mighty are not complaining about price because that is immaterial to their wallets. They spit out the word beer as if it were a corked wine and we all know these types wouldn't be seen dead having a pint. However, they reluctantly admit that a thimble of beer a month is inside safe levels of consumption. Fuck that for a game of soldiers. Where beer is concerned I subscribe to the notion that the first one has a taste of more off it and we all know that it is bad luck to put the cork back on the wine bottle.

Having said that however, I concede there are some who really do have a problem when it comes to drink. But my theory is that the problem exists already, whatever it is, and the addition of drink only fuels the problem to the surface. That thought brings me to the motivation to drink alcohol. My son in his early twenties tells me his age-group drink to get seriously pissed. They lace into shorts one after another even before they go out for the night. Something more exotic might even get smoked or snorted and by then they're in the mood to shout and dance, and apparently, it is still only 7.00pm.

The word intoxication comes from the latin 'toxicare' or toxic. Alcohol in its pure form is toxic and too much gives you toxic poisoning. If you've ever had a hangover then you know what I mean. You've poisoned your blood stream. But prior to poisoning you have the period of losing control of your faculties or behaviour. That is the reason, I believe, why some people merely drink to get drunk. There is a core unhappiness in the psyche that needs to be smothered temporarily. It is an escape mechanism used to avoid a pain felt when sober. That pain might be a low self-worth, a lack of confidence or something else entirely. The drink is only the tool of escapism.

I don't know about you but I actually like the taste of beer and wine, (in separate glasses naturally). Recently I discovered a draught beer from a micro-brewery here in Cork called "Friar Weiss," and it is a dream beer. You savour every drop rather than hosing it down the hatch. The place that sells it does a sandwich that tastes of everything you like and put the two of them together and the view of the ocean from their back windows and you have a recipe to sit and chat pleasantly for an afternoon.

I tried tequila twice and the second time I went rubber-numb from the waist down and had to be carried out. The top half of me was coherently telling jokes at the time I tried to stand up and that was just plain weird. I suspect that Tequila makes your ankles pissed. But I'll chance a whiskey in an Irish coffee after dinner and I used to like red rum on cold days. However the feeling of dizzy-drunk is repulsive to me and that leads me to the idea of drunk, what it is and why it is attractive.

We have lots of names for it because drunk is not a single state or thing. There are degrees of drunk from mild buzz right through to unconscious and everything in between. An old friend visits my local pub with me once a month and for five hours and over many pints, we make sense of our lives together. It is talking only with no TV or radio or anything else to interrupt the communication of ideas and thoughts. It is therapy for both and the alcohol and the pub facilitates it.

We forget too that a public house is the opposite of a private house. You wouldn't meet five or six of your mates in your own front room unless you live in the snowy wastes of Canada and the nearest pub is a hundred miles away. The pub in Ireland is an institution for meeting and socializing with friends. It is not what we are but a reflection of what we like. The pub comforts us and the beer loosens us. We become convivial and happy even if it is only for a short while. We all have responsibilities and worries and they'll still be there in the morning regardless. We know that, but what we're saying is, will you just fuck off for a couple of hours and leave me alone to enjoy myself because I don't get out half enough. And while I'm at it, what's it to you?

The way the medical profession has begun lecturing us from their high moral ground about everything we do is grating on the nerves. Knowing we don't have much money and a night out must be planned and budgeted for, they now demand that Government put the price of a few pints beyond us. What the average doctor charges for five minutes in his or her clinic would give me two good nights out in any week.

So my conclusion is that the drink problem in Ireland is due to Doctors. They'd drive you to drink!!